


when I walk in the spot (yeah) this is what I see

by Anonymous



Series: ASMR sensual clown noises to kiss your man to [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Crack, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Roommates, Sexual Tension, and a lot of cussing, cuss and porn basically, u know what i mean, yall i tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eddie is the worst manspreader and it drives Richie crazy (in more ways than one).
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: ASMR sensual clown noises to kiss your man to [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186145
Comments: 17
Kudos: 154
Collections: Clowntown Kink Meme 2021





	when I walk in the spot (yeah) this is what I see

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [clowntown2021](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/clowntown2021) collection. 



> Hi guys this is my first reddie fic! Thanks whoever came up with this genius prompt XD  
> unbeta'd so pls forgive me for my grammar mistakes  
> cw: canon typical language, a lot of dick and ball jokes
> 
> **Prompt:**  
>  Eddie is the worst manspreader and it drives Richie crazy (in more ways than one)

Eddie Kaspbrak is a mess.

Richie has learned this, regrettably, after a whole six weeks of apartment sharing. Considering the man’s practically spent the past decade in a full-service adult daycare, it’s more or less understandable. Nonetheless, their new living arrangement makes him feel like a dorm room dwelling Comm major again, except that Bluto from freshman year at least had the decency of wearing pants in the kitchen, and that back then his hair screamed less _midlife-crisis-ahead_ and more sexy desperado. 

For fuck’s sake, despite what his occasional lifestyle may suggest— Richie’s forty years old. His neck does the crunches thing; he drinks sleepytime tea; he pays a Dilbert-looking guy in a beige office just to do his taxes, which means he probably shouldn’t assume the responsibility of educating a newly-bachelorized bigshot risk assessor about _roommate etiquette_. He loves the fucking man to death, but if Eddie has any real passion for his job, he’d already be assessing the risk of them throwing hands the next time Richie finds crumpled up shirts laying inches away from the laundry basket, or some crushed up beer cans on top of his coffee table rather than inside the trash. 

Seriously. They’ve talked about this, you’d think hypochondria _can_ go slightly beyond personal wellbeing and hygiene—

— The first thing Richie sees, after finally arriving home from a Saturday evening gig, is a small army of empty Heinekens ranking against a tiny pool of spill like a divorcee's Stonehenge. 

“Eds?” He takes in a deep breath. “What the fuck?”

There’s no response.

“Eds!!” Richie throws his jacket on the door rack. “ _Eddie Kaspbrak!!!_ ”

“Stop yelling, you jerkface!” A faint yell flies down through the hallway. “I’m working!”

Richie tramps in front of Eddie’s bedroom, ready to trot out his two damn cents. “Yeah? Working on what, Eds, brewing piss? Anti-recycling?” He wraps his fingers around the doorknob. “Busting my nuts? I’m not your mommy girlfri— _Jesusfuckingchrist_!"

He freezes in place.

“What?” 

Eddie is indeed working. He’s sitting in bed, leaning against a propped up pillow with a grey t-shirt on, a laptop positioned on his belly illuminating his face. The problem is his _legs_. Eddie’s only wearing his paper thin short shorts (of course), and those two fine, lean pins spread out from under the hems by such a wide angle that his heels are almost dangling by each side of his bed. Standing at the door, Richie can quite literally see the shape of his—

Calm. _Calm._

“What. The fuck. Is your problem,” He forces himself to look away. “How are you— is that even comfortable?”

“As comfortable as your mom’s bosom,” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “What, I can’t draft emails in my own bed?”

“Yea-No?” Richie can’t believe he needs to answer that question. “Not when you can fit the Microsoft headquarter between your legs?”

Eddie looks down at his lower body. He frowns, seemingly finding no issue, and turns back to Richie again, showing no intention to adjust his borderline pornographic position.

“You’re an asshole, Rich.”

“Me. _I’m_ an asshole.” Richie tries to dial down the pitch of his voice and fails. “You subjected me, _my_ eyeballs. To _this_ image. And _I’m_ the asshole. I’ll have to do a- a cleansing ritual, or something. I’ll need fucking bleach.”

Eddie shrugs. “I’m leaving enough room for your-”

“- Yeah, enough room for my mom, blah, blah, blowjob funny. Shut up.” Richie feels his heartbeat finally starting to slow down. “Thank god you still have those booty shorts. Bet you destroyed all your other pants with your epic split.”

“No, your sister’s handwashing them at her place.” Eddie answers, turning his focus back to the laptop screen. “Fuck off now. I’ll be done in five minutes.”

“Title of your sex tape.” Richie replies flatly. “You know I don’t have a sister.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re a fucking specimen, Eds.” 

Richie closes the door, walks down to the living room and pours himself a glass of ice water, downing it in one go and wondering how he’s done all these with a white-out brain. Beer can confrontation would have to wait, Richie decides, because he has a feeling that he’s now facing an even bigger problem.

  
  
  


“ _Manspread_ ,” Bev singsongs. Ben lets out a quick giggle, rearranging his hand of cards yet again. Bev continues. “Ever heard of that, Eddie?”

“I’m literally just sitting,” Eddie frowns, letting out a long, deep exhale. “Steps of three. Anyone beats it?”

“Bet your ass I beat it,” Richie snorts. “Eight to ten. The only reason I’m not sitting on my own couch is because of your stupid divider trunks, Eds.”

“I can’t.” Ben shakes his head, signaling for himself to pass the turn.

“Jack to Queen. Oh-oh, who’s the boss,” Bev throws the cards on the table, leaving only a small spread in her palm. “Not to plunk for Rich-”

“- What have I ever done to you, Bev-”

“- But Eddie does have a unique card-playing stance.”

“I swear to Prince Ali, it’s not just for card-playing,” Richie waves his arm resignedly. “You should’ve seen him in his bed the other day. ‘twas Playboy centerfold.”

Ben laughs with his eyes. “That’s your complaint?”

“Yeah it is. Burned two holes in my face.”

“What’s between my legs happens to be valuable to me, okay?” Eddie protests. “Just an old habit. I like to give it some space. So they don’t, you know, overheat.”

“Dude,” Richie pokes at Eddie’s calf. “Just stop styling your balls like they’re touring with Poison.”

“- There’s always the risk of testicular cancer-”

“Oh come on, you do not get testicular cancer from sitting like a fucking person.”

“No,” Eddie nods at Richie, the annoyance on his face gradually turns into dumb smugness. “Not with that lady finger you have.”

“Got your facts wrong, Eddie boy,” Richie blinks innocently. “My dick’s fatter than Mrs. K’s ass after thanksgiving.”

Ben takes another sip of his drink, eyeing Eddie amusedly as he grumbles something, adjusting his posture on the couch. He lifts up one knee— narrowing the width between his legs— and sets his foot down on the cushion, where Richie’s seat could have been. He smirks at him.

_Fuck me_ , Richie thinks. What a mess. 

… makes him feel like a teenager again.

“God, you two belong together.” Bev shakes her head. “Anyone beats my cards? Am I winning the game?”

“Do your thing, Ben.” Eddie hums.

“You sure?”

“Yep.” So Ben purses his lips and nods, laying down four of Aces out of nowhere. Bev groans; Eddie grins, swinging a fist into the air, and the night continues.

Once Richie has learned the terminology, it becomes increasingly hard to ignore certain behaviors.

To his defense, Eddie Kaspbrak is definitely an irredeemable, mannerless, extra-leg space-occupying manspreader, on top of his many other sins. He sits at breakfast as if the chair’s a rocking horse. He watches the games with BLT bites between his thighs like some sort of one-man fetish fest. When Richie sits in the backseat with him— after their occasional bar hopping adventures, or when Eddie actually comes to see his show— he has to squeeze against the window like a sticky hand toy because otherwise he’d be so close to Eddie’s absurdly positioned limbs that they would actually _touch_ , and it makes him _feel_ things. 

_Plus_ , for the sake of Richie‘s slipping sanity, Eddie needs to stop wearing those tiny, impossible, _Larry Bird in The 80s_ -esque jersey shorts up his pale spaghetti thighs. It has drastically changed Richie’s late night screen time and his frequency of clearing browser histories. He’s had this stupid crush since when, thirteen years old? It’s embarrassing.

Fuck the clown for making him forget and then remember again. If Richie wants to feel like a piece of shit, he’d just go back to doing improv. 

  
  


“Hey Eds, you know that you don’t have to do this, right? I actually prefer you not to,” Richie sucks in a deep breath. “I _really_ prefer you not to.”

Eddie turns back from the kitchen counter, where he’s mixing drinks with both hands. He pulls up his classic fake-mad face. “Come on, dude, don’t send me to my room. Do you not want this Pina Colada,” he perks up an eyebrow. “We can watch your teen drama and have a sleepover together. We can talk about boys. It’ll be cute.”

“It will be boring.” Richie answers, spinning the TV remote between his fingers. “I’ll have to keep hitting pause. We’ll have to stay up if I can’t finish.” 

Eddie shrugs, rolling his eyes.

“This is work to me, okay?” Richie continues his persuasion. “It’s a- it’s a YouTube thing. It’s networking.”

“Yeah? Networking?” Eddie teases. “I thought your job was invented _after_ fun.”

“This is a professional- ”

“You’re reviewing Riverdale for your A-lister friend’s niece’s Cole Sprouse fan channel.”

“Yes, and I take it very seriously. Been chasing that Suite Life money train for years,” Richie replies matter of factly, finding no easy escape for the moment. “I’ll toss you in for London Tipton once they shake on my sequel.”

“Fuck off. You're trying too hard.” Eddie sniffs.

With two full glasses in hand, he scuffles towards Richie like a duckling on ice. Eddie stretches out his arms— after sitting their drinks on the table— ready to sit down into the couch.

Richie’s suddenly nervous. 

“Wait!” He sticks out his palm against Eddie’s back. “You have to promise me something.”

“Huh?” Eddie looks back at him, confused.

“Do not, and I repeat, DO NOT,” Richie sighs. “Do not do that thing with your legs. It drives me fucking nuts.”

“I- What?”

“I’m dead serious, Eds,” Richie puts on the most sincere face he can manage. “Just- keep your knees together. Hug them to your chin if you have to. It’s a fucking pet peeve of mine, okay?”

Eddie stares at him. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Richie’s pretty sure he just scared him a little; but he really, really can’t have Eddie sitting besides him doing his booty shorts gym routine for three fucking hours. Richie would probably, actually die. 

“Jeez, dude,” he finally says. “I won’t, alright? I promise. Just turn on the show.”

The first forty minutes are fine. Great, actually. Eddie is lounging on his side of the sofa, just the right distance from Richie so that he can feel his body temperature (it’s comforting, he has to admit), while simultaneously concentrating on the main boy— come on, the guy’s at least twenty five— terrible dye job. However, things start rolling downhill after Eddie decides to go take a quick leak. When he comes back, it seems that whatever they’ve talked about is completely forgotten: Richie finds himself awkwardly leaning towards the armrest, while Eddie seats himself perfectly in the middle of the coach. With the corners of his eyes, Richie can see the expression on Eddie’s face: unsuspecting, with the center of his brows slightly wrinkled, like a melancholic little pug who’s just begging for scritches, which really isn’t helping.

When they’re done with two episodes, Eddie’s limbs are already fully stretched out, and it’s become impossible for Richie _not_ to brush his own clothed leg, here and there, against Eddie’s bare skin. Eddie’s still watching the show, making small, unawaring little huffs and chuckles at the plot that Richie’s no longer following, because the entire environment is extremely distracting. 

Richie starts to sweat. His heart begins beating fast, then practically sprinting up and down his throat, and he can’t focus on anything else besides Eddie’s breaths, the furrows on his forehead and the damn thigh presses against his— bouncing unrhythmically, sending tingles through his veins. Again, not fucking helping.

“Eddie,” Richie snaps. “Stop it.”

“What?” Eddie corks head, eyes still on the screen, only half-listening.

“You know what I mean,” Richie pauses the TV. “Stop doing that.”

“Are you- God. For real?” Eddie frowns, turning his upper body to face Richie.

“Yeah. _For real, dude_ ,” Richie rolls up his eyes. “Just keep your spaghetti legs together so we can continue.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches. “I have perfectly normal legs. They look fine, their sizes are- fine,” He takes a sip of water. “You’ve been on my case for a whole month, what’s your fucking deal?”

“What’s my fucking deal? Dude, you’ve been sitting like you’re the fucking- wife of Genghis Khan,” Richie swipes his hands in the air. “It’s not cool. It’s distracting-”

“- It’s the way I _sit_ , you jerk, I literally can’t think of a single way it would affect you.”

“Yeah it does. Your knee’s poking into my fucking dick, Eddie, you’re fuckin- roundhousing- the entire next Tozier generation,” Before he can stop himself, Richie’s hand has already landed on Eddie’s lower thigh. “Just close them. Close your legs.”

“Fuck no.” Eddie’s fingers, warningly, presse against his operating wrist. “You’re not the fucking- posture police.”

“Do it.”

“No way.”

“I swear to fucking god-” As he makes the spontaneous decision of taking matters into his own hands, Richie turns his wrist outward, trying to push Eddie’s leg away by blunt force. 

Eddie shifts backward at the twist of Richie’s arm, throwing both of his legs on the couch. “Fuck you,” he shots, kicking up targetlessly in hope to ward Richie away. Richie leaps forward and grabs onto both Eddie’s knees despite his struggle, continuing to narrow the distance between them. “Just- stop fighting!” Richie badgers. “I’m way bigger than you, Eds, I’m strong, you’re not gonna win this.”

“You’re a jerk, I can’t believe it,” Eddie snaps out an offensing arm, which Richie dodges with some effort. “You’re fighting me for this? You had cornflakes from 2015 in your fucking fridge when I moved in, and I said nothing! You could’ve give me E-fucking-Coli!”

“Oh, why don’t you suck my fucking dick about it, Eds, it’s fucking cornflakes, and you said _plenty_ of things—”

“Yeah? I’m getting on your nerves, Tozier? I’m disturbing your- fragile sensibility?”

“Oh yes, yes you are, baby, all you do is busting head-first into my personal space-”

“Your personal space,” Richie’s face starts turning pink from the bottom. “Your fucking personal space, I got stabbed back to front by a fucking space clown for your ass! I got a damn divorce! And you’re bitching about your- personal space?” 

“It’s not just that! It’s the fact that everytime I look down to tie my fucking shoelaces, I can see your whole pack almost hanging out of your stupid booty shorts! 

“Don’t get jealous if you're gonna- be a ballgazer,” Eddie grabs onto Richie’s forearm, trying to balance his strength. 

“Me? I’m jealous? Of what?”

“Of my fucking dick and balls-”

“Oh Eddie, Eddie, let me tell you— I’ve seen other dicks. I’ve touched other dicks. I’ve measured- at least five or six of them with my fucking hand, wrist to thumb, I know their fucking _girth_ , and no one’s ever topped _me_ , _my_ goddamn monster cock yet,” He continues to jostle Eddie’s lower thighs. “Who the fuck does the ballgazer bit anymore, Eds- I’m not a pent-up dudebro fratboy! FY fucking I, I was so swarmed in panties _and_ jockstraps I couldn’t even— Shit!”

Without warning, Eddie’s knees suddenly rams against each other, his fingers loosened on Richie’s skin like all his will to fight is abruptly drained up and thrown away. Richie stumbles forward, his face nearly crashing into Eddie’s sternum if not for his elbows’ crisis support. “What the fuck,” Richie feels dizzy from how har he’s just knocked his teeth. “You almost crushed my fingers, Eds!”

He tilts his face up— and Eddie looks _horrified_. He’s breathing fast, and clearly not just from their horseplay. His face and neck are fully, thoroughly flushed like his body’s producing way too much blood and they’re not going to the right places.

“Eds?” Richie cautiously props himself back up. “Are you… okay?”

Eddie’s throat moves, but not a single sound actually comes out of it.

“Eds, oh my god, did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, shit, shit shit,” Richie looks down, trying to see if he’s punched on Eddie’s clown-wound as guilt slowly but steadily creeps up on him. He has a simple first aid kit under the kitchen sink, and he's almost sure there’s a way better one somewhere in Eddie’s room. God, Richie’s panicking; he really doesn’t want Eds back in the hospital. He’ll give literally anything for Eds to not end up in a hospital—

He pulls up Eddie’s shirt. The scars seem fine, considering the fact they’re fucking scars. Eddie grunts weakly. Richie gingerly reaches out, pressing his thumbs down Eddie’s stomach to check if anything feels wrong.

And then he sees it.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Eddie hisses. “Don’t.”

“...Dude,” Richie feels his soul leaving his body. 

“No.”

“I wasn’t even talking.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“Yeah, Eds, I was _thinking about it_ .” Richie swallows. “It’s hard not to _think about it_ when you’re-”

“Richie _I swear to fucking god_ —”

“—When you’re faced with a bouncing, raging hard-on.” Richie swears he’s lost control of his eye muscles because he really shouldn’t be staring at it, but for some reason he can’t look away. “I didn’t even know that’s possible for you, Eds. I thought you only do it in those germ free lab boxes, like, with the latex gloves.” 

“I-” Eddie stops mid-word. Richie wants to shove a fist down his own throat. 

“... Eds?” He tries to save the conversation. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, t’was just a broner. ‘Twas accidental. You’re probably pretty frustrated, I- I was being a jerk.”

Eddie lets on a shaky exhale, dragging his hands up to cover his face.

“That’s it,” he huffs weakly. “I’m leaving. I’m moving to fucking Canada so I don’t have to listen to you ever again.”

Goddamn it.

“Listen,” Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s forearm in an effort of comforting him. “Two years ago I was at this interview, and the guy looked like, if Frank Sinatra had a baby with the Marlboro man. Next thing you know I was giving full salute, right in front of the camera. I had to fake an appendicitis and go jerk off in the—”

Eddie gasps. His cock jumps against Richie’s belly.

“Holy shit,” Richie breathes. “You got hard again.” He tries to wrap his mind around the two events— “You got hard from me talking about wetting my pole.”

“No. I did not.” Eddie protests weakly. “Stop saying _wetting my pole_.”

“Yeah you did,” Richie gulps. “Eds.”

“Shut up.”

“Your fucking dick literally just stood up when I-”

“It was a coincidence.”

“Okay. Okay, let’s say it was a coincidence,” Richie’s heart is skipping beats. “... Do you want me to touch it?”

Eddie stares at him blankly. Richie feels the tent jerking up again— Eddie breathes in sharply like he’s just burned himself by a candle wick. He’s still not protesting.

“Wow,” Richie feels light-headed. “ _A lot_ is happening right now. A lot to process.” 

“ _Nothing_ if you just drop it.” Eddie groans. “Consider that a fucking option.”

“Oh no, oh no no no, Eddie, I’m not dropping it, you can’t pry it out of my cold dead hands,” Richie catches himself breathing fast. “I need us to be on the same page. Is this only a physical thing? Or do you, you know.”

“I don’t- I need you to spell it out for me, Rich.”

“You need me to- God I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’m literally already losing hair,” Richie laughs, although he isn't sure why exactly he's laughing since his mouth seems to be moving on its own. “Do you love me, Eds? Do you _like-like_ me? Do you wanna us to partner up when we learn the fucking Cotton Eye Joe dance?”

Eddie bites his lips. “Do you?”

“Yes, Jesus, Eds, I’ve liked you since you were the gloomiest little asshole in the state of Maine.” Richie answers. “I love you so fucking much.”

And Eddie just looks at him, stunned. His jaw slightly dropped open, or that he’s forgotten to close it. A mile-long fleet of thoughts fly through Richie’s otherwise paper-blank mind about how he shouldn’t have just done _that_ . Why the fuck did he just do _that_. 

“Eddie, say something,” Richie tries not to consider the possibility that he has just ruined the most treasured thing in his life. “Give me something, please.”

Eddie’s chest billows, his expression unreadable. God, he’s gonna love this man till the day he drops and there’s not a single thing he can do about it—

“Rich,” he finally croaks out. “You fucking asshole.”

Eddie’s shoulders dart up from the couch. Richie feels a hand threading in his hair, holding him still, and Eddie’s face, so stupidly pretty, pushing towards his, so close that he can count the man’s lashes on his screwed-shut eyes. Their mouths practically smash together, almost knocking off his glasses.

“That hurts,” Richie complains, and Eddie replies by parting his lips, muffling the words with his tongue, so what actually comes out is just a string of random syllables. The kiss is wet, raw and burning; Richie closes his eyes and moans into it until he’s overcome by the highly impractical human need to breathe.

“Holy,” he gasps. “Eds-”

“Don’t you dare say anything stupid,” Eddie fastens his arms around Richie’s shoulder and drags him close, setting his chin by the side of Richie’s neck, blowing hot, fast, off-rhythmed breaths on his skin. “Shit, shit, I don’t know why I just did that, Richie. I really fucking don’t.”

“It’s- I don’t give a shit as long as you do it again. As often as possible. Put it in your calendar. Call your secretary.” Richie turns to kiss at Eddie’s ear, which’s now covered in light pink. He drags his teeth at the man’s earlobe, drawing out a whimper. “I’m so turned on right now, babe. Holy fuck.”

“Yeah, I can feel that,” Eddie’s voice is small and cutted. “Wha- what do we do now?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Richie breaths, continuing to nibble at Eddie’s jaw and neck. He tastes so fucking good. 

“Did the last two minutes scream _I hate your stupid dick_ , Richie?” Eddie heaves. “I let you _babe_ me.”

“You called me an _asshole_ before eating my face, so I had to make sure,” Richie leans back into the armrest and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Glad that's outta the way. There’s something I wanna try. Something’s been driving me nuts for weeks.”

He watches as realization dawns on Eddie's face. “Christ, do you really—”

“Yeah, I do, Eds. I really fucking do.” He bounces up, and knees the couch away from the coffee table with Eddie on it, giving him enough space for business. “Everytime you just had to spread your legs in your tiny underwear, and I just _had_ to look at it. God. I felt like a fucking pervert. There are still— there are still standards in this society, Eds, some of them are bullshit, but some are here for a reason, one of those reasons being Richie’s two sad balls.” He pauses, collecting his breaths. “I’m pretty sure you owe me this, like, legally.”

“I don’t even have words right now.”

“I have to get over it,” Richie pleads. “Eds, please let me have this.

“God. So, you want me to,” Eddie props himself upright with one arm, slowly, almost skeptically, parting his knees apart. The fabric of his shorts is tenting, the tip of which is already forming a damp spot. “Like this?”

“That’s so hot,” Richie kneels down between those perfect, bare thighs, gazing up at Eddie’s face. “Take off the shirt, Eds- Yes. You’re perfect. You know that?”

“I’m hot, I’m perfect, I’m also the pope of Vatican,” Eddie sinks his fingertips into the couch. “Jesus, Richie, just do it— do it before you blow your fucking load.”

“Sure, _babe_ , I like it when you’re bossy,” Richie grins, running his palms up Eddie’s legs.

Eddie’s scoff is halted when Richie presses the heel of his palm against the clothed outline of his bulge, grinding up until he feels the hips in front tilts up into his hand. 

“Fuck,” Eddie pants. 

“Soon, baby, please, stay in the position.” Richie coos, kneading in circles. “Atta boy.”

“Just- stop playing, Richie-”

“Alright, alright,” He hooks his thumbs inside Eddie’s waistband and begins dragging it down, letting out that cock he’s been dreaming about for so long. It’s smooth, cut, bouncing from Richie’s motion, curving up at a tempting angle against Eddie’s belly. 

He wraps his hand at its base. Eddie moans loudly, jamming his heels into Richie’s back. The noises he makes are increasingly unstrung and high-pitched as Richie starts stroking, his hips bucking with the movement.

“Damn, Eds, it’s only my hand,” he coos. “You’re making me feel like a sex king.”

“Shut up, f-fuck,” Eddie curses, desperately holding on to the couch cushion. “I’m not a- chronic masturbator like you.” 

“Proud of who I am,” Richie plants a kiss on Eddie’s inner thigh. “Keep them wide open, baby.” 

Eddie cusses raspily. Richie leans forward and quickly wets his lips, still can’t believe it’s actually happening. He’s wanted this for so fucking long. Richie taps his tongue at the base of Eddie’s cock, and the man _shudders_. He glances up at Eddie’s face: his eyes are large and wet and off-focus, lips trembling. 

“You know why they call me Trashmouth,” Richie pulls out what he thinks is a puppy face. “Right?”

“Oh god,” Eddie groans. “Don’t make me answer that. You know it’s fucking not.”

Richie smiles, licking his lips. “‘Cause I like it sloppy.”

He dives in, and puts his mouth to work, sucking Eddie off with great enthusiasm, lapping his tongue from the base to the tip; slow at first, then speeding up as Eddie lets out a stream of choked sobs (the once-missing hallway music for Richie’s multi-storey Eddie Kaspbrak spankbank is finally discovered), helplessly fisting through his hair, swaying his hips at a less and less restrained angle. Richie adjusts his breaths so that he can take in the dick deeper— the thought of Eddie hitting the back of his throat sends streaks of fire up his stomach. He palms at his own boner through his pants, feeling it lengthening under his fingers.

Eddie’s cock is thick and heavy on his tongue. His mouth is soon inevitably slick with overflowing saliva, hot and melty, and each movement comes with a drippy smacking sound that rings in his ears. Eddie’s thighs are narrowing in, and Richie knows that he’s getting close; so he reaches up and grips onto Eddie’s thighs, keeping his knees wide apart in their original poses. He continues bobbing his head and upping the pace, until his hair falls in front of his glasses and his eyes sting with tears. 

“I’m gonna come, Rich,” Eddie cries out, head throwing back against the couch’s backrest. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, Richie, I’m so fucking close-”

Richie hollows his cheeks one more time and feels the shaft in his mouth throbs. Eddie bends down, cradling Richie’s head tightly with both arms, as something hot and salty runs down his throat. They hold still for a few seconds before Richie tilts up his chin. Eddie looks as if someone’s just blanked his whole brain for a full three seconds, and it’s fucking mesmerizing. 

Richie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then wipes his glasses on his sweatpants. When his heart finally stops racing, Richie rolls back onto his rear, voice coarsed. “Holy shit,” He grins, trying to catch his breath. “That was a totally dream come true.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Eddie almost falls off the sofa, chest billowing, still dazed.

“Oh you loved it. You started fucking my mouth in like, five seconds,” Richie tries to stand up, his knees all jello-y. “Which made me a very happy man.”

“Stop talking and hand me some tissues.”

“Of course, baby, my bad,” Richie flounders towards the side table, still rock hard. “Anything else? This old saddle’s all yours.”

Richie’s expecting some old fashioned snap-backs rather than an actual answer, since Eddie’s already come once and he’s more than okay with replaying the last ten minutes in his mind, and letting his hand do the rest of the work. However, Eddie opens his mouth— and closes it again quickly. 

He draws his eyes to the lower corner, his throat moving.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Eds-”

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Richie,” Eddie sprints through his words, clearly stressed. “ _You_ asked me what I fucking want. You went on and on about your magic horse dong, so either you stick to your fucking words or-”

“No, I mean yes, fuck, you don’t- you don’t need to say it twice, I’m on it,” Richie feels like his tongue’s no longer working. “You wanna, uh, come to my room?”

“I know how often you wash your sheets, Rich. I'm not touching that bed.”

Eddie’s room smells good. It’s honestly very unfair that Eddie’s room smells like pomegranate and cedar woods while Richie’s room smells like hot nothing, even though they exist less than thirty feet apart in the same apartment. Laying on his back, naked, wide-eyed and anxiously wetting his lips, Eddie looks like a newly vivified Men’s Health cover who’s yet to, but so ready to swill in what another body can offer. 

“What the fuck, Rich,” Eddie fusses. “Are you coming or not?”

Richie’s fingers are fumbling because can’t strip out of his pants fast enough. All he wants is to throw himself into bed and on top of Eddie, lining kisses along his neck like there’s no tomorrow, and there’s nothing stopping him from doing exactly that. Eddie reaches down between them; Richie groans loudly, hips jerking, both at the sweet frictions and at the thought of Eddie’s pretty fingers around his lengthened cock.

“Don’t- I’m not gonna last long, baby, please, shit,” he reaches for the lube on Eddie’s bed stand, trying not to move too much in Eddie’s hand because he really needs to do everything in his capacity to make it till the end. “Let me do it, let me do everything, just lift up your legs.”

“Christ,” a tiny laugh escapes Eddie. “Are you always this needy?”

“Only with you, Eds, wham-bam-thank-you with everyone else,” Richie messily dribbles the cold liquid on his fingers, coating them. “Have you- do you need me to walk you through this?”

“I know how to _have sex_ , Tozier.”

“Butt stuff too? That pretty gay-”

“-Yeah,” Eddie cuts him off, turning his head to look away. “...Put my fingers in there, once or twice.”

“In this room?” Eddie shudders at the image— Eddie, laying right where he is now, his ass trembling and swallowing his fingers. He reaches for Eddie’s buttcheek, then trailing to find his hole, circling it, thinking about the other hand that once massaged and loosened the ring of muscle. “Did you think about me? Please, I need to know, Eds. Fuck, that’s so hot, you’re so fucking hot.”

“Goddamn it,” Eddie pants. “you’re gonna be so smug about it, fuck, I fucking knew it-”

Eddie’s jaw hangs open, head throwing back, gasping like a coursed animal as Richie carefully, perhaps torturously pushes the first knuckle in. He moves up for a kiss, and despite the previous scolding, his requisition is accepted without much hassle. Eddie’s tongue confides between his lips with perfect, honest, strained pitches, as he plods his finger inside deeper until the entire thing is swallowed in heat.

“- Fuck,” Eddie manages, fingertips dragging into Richie’s back. His thighs tense up like drawn bows, restlessly shifting when Richie starts moving his fingers. “Goddamn it, Rich-”

“Yes, yes,” Richie mutters breathily against his lips. “Keep talking, baby, I love your voice. Tell me what you want, tell me about your Richie Tozier fist-list fantasy.”

“I fucking hate you, I hate you so much,” Eddie arches up his waist as Richie begins working a second finger in. His eyes are fluttered shut- he’s trying to modulate his own breath, which ultimately fails. When Richie adds a third finger, scissoring and stretching him out, Eddie looks and sounds like he’s broken in pieces, clenching Richie’s shoulder and pouring unintelligible curses over his skin.

Richie’s so fucking hard. He’s been hard for more than half an hour and at this point he’s sure it’s caused him some sort of brain ischemia. He continues until Richie is properly pressed in all aspects possible, disheveled, the side of his cock rutting into Richie’s stomach. With one last writhe, he pulls out his fingers and holds on to the side of Eddie’s waist— who exhales sharply at the loss of contact— hoisting him closer into his lap.

“You’re beautiful, Eds. I’m so fucking lucky.” Richie utters under his breath, squeezing the tip of the condom and shakily rolling it up his cock. “I’ll be so pissed if this turns out to be a sex dream— if this turns out to be a dream I’ll start believing in incubus.”

“It feels ridiculous- when you’re actually sweet to me,” Eddie croaks, his voice high-pitched.

“You called me a jerk at least fifteen times since we started. Wasn’t so sweet either.” Richie pushes his palms over the globe of Eddie’s buttcheeks, rolling them apart slightly and rubbing his fingers in the soft, ample flesh. “You have a glorious fucking ass, Eds. I want to hold you in my hands all day and just walk around like this. So fucking perfect. Why do you have to be so perfect-”

“I’m trying- fuck. God. I’m trying to say nice things- ’s hard because you’re a _jerk_ ,” Eddie squirms, pushing his ass towards Richie’s cock. “Are you going to- fuck me or not?”

“Yeah sweetie, you’ll get there.” Richie smiles. “’m going to rock your world.”

Eddie bites into his shoulder when Richie quishes inside, albeit already slick and loosened by his fingers. His body, on the contrary, is eager and welcoming and ravenously sucking in everything Richie can provide, and it feels like fucking heaven. His cock jumps between them, practically begging for attention which Richie’s too busy to provide, with his hands caressing and massaging Eddie’s thighs and ass to relax his quivering muscles.

He makes small thrusts at first, knocking a choked sound out of Eddie with every movement. Eddie’s legs wrap around his lower back, railing him in closer. Richie rolls his hips up to a more tilted angle— and Eddie moans loudly and breathlessly when he pounds down again, harder this time. 

“I love you so much, baby, fuck,” Richie dips his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck, sucking on it sedulously. “Can’t believe you’d let me do this. Can’t believe you let me have you.”

Eddie groans, and Richie can’t make out a single coherent word from it. In fact, the only sensation that’s expanding and occupying his entire mind is the texture under his tongue and that sweet, fervid, throbbing heat around his cock. Their kiss is hungry. Eddie bites at Richie’s lower lip, tugging it between his teeth. Richie’s cock twitches, responsively, at the sting. His hips are moving at a more and more paced rhythm, his hands restless, with orgasm building steadily in his abdomen, thick and imminent and roaring.

“Richie- I’m gonna,” Eddie pants,eyes wide and unblinking. “Faster, god, I’m so close-”

“Yes, baby, I’m here, I’m all yours,” Richie grabs the base of Eddie’s cock, pumping it between their stomachs with rapid, charged strokes. Eddie’s knees fasten against either side of his waist, trembling uncontrollably, he sounds like he’s trying hard to stay above water. Richie continues, whispering into Eddie’s ear even though he’s own head is ringing and the words all sound like sweet, blubbering nothingness. He’s closer and closer to the edge— suddenly Eddie shudders, clenches around him and quivers in a soundless sob, his cock pulsating and rutting— spilling between his fingers. 

Richie falls forward as an overcoming wave washes through his body. He fucks into Eddie for the last few thrusts, until he’s finally spent.

He pulls himself out. They’re silent for a few seconds, as Richie ties up the condom and throws in onto the ground, collapsing on top of Eddie. “Fuck.”

“Pick it up, Richie,” Eddie scoffs faintly from underneath him. “You’ll have to do it. I can never walk again.”

“No, this is cuddling.” Richie mutters. “I’m not moving when I’m cuddling you.”

“This is not cuddling- You’re sticky. It’s gross.”

Richie wriggles his legs between Eddie’s, expecting to be pushed away at some point. He’s so sated, boneless, and Eddie’s heart pounds away steadily, echoing through the bones and muscles between them, sounding like paradise in his ears. He wants to stay here forever.

Instead of any more snapbacks, he feels a pair of lips, gingerly and quickly, leaving a peck on his shoulder. Richie leans his head up. “Eds…”

“...Just let me have this.” 

A warm hand maps up his shoulder blades. Richie, letting out a soft sighs, agreeably shutting his mouth. 

Eddie Kaspbrak calls in sick the next day after discovering at least a dozen hickeys all over his neck. Richie would be lying to say he feels any remorse, even when (especially when) he’s shoved against the bathroom door by a beautiful, revenge-seeking ball of fury. “It was spur of the moment,” Richie blinks, entirely unrepentant. “You still love me, right? No takebacks?”

“Fuck off,” Eddie hisses, running a hand up the hem of his shirt, not denying the statement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are so very appreciated <33


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